


just right for human souls

by arekiras



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 20:08:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11111928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arekiras/pseuds/arekiras
Summary: "this fire we call Loving is too strong for human minds. but just right for human souls." -Aberjhani (Elemental: The Power of Illuminated Love)or, magnus bane has platonic relationships too you shits. (happy birthday, wrye)





	1. Simon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DragonBread](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonBread/gifts).



> beta'd by @aleclightwoodsgay on tumblr (bless u my dude)

Despite being his Downworlder mentor, Simon has found Magnus Bane to be insanely difficult to pin down. In between the weekly Shadowhunter crises (Simon has found himself developing a disdain for Shadowhunters that seems to be the single unifying aspect among every Downworld faction) and Magnus’s seemingly endless list of clientele, Simon has been spending the better part of a month trying to claim one of Magnus’s evenings for himself.

He may be a Daylighter now, but something deep inside him still prefers moonlight to sunlight, and he hardly imagines Magnus to be a morning person.

The wards surrounding Magnus’s home stretch from the roof of his penthouse loft to the ground floor of the building, and they become palpable about half a block away. The sensation of magic is hard for Simon to describe, a sharp bone deep tingling. Like hands are reaching in and tapping along his spine.

But still, Simon prefers to walk than to Portal in. Because Portaling feels like those hands have him by the inside of the navel and by the lungs, pulling him through the skin of the earth.

As far as Simon can tell, the sensation of magic for Downworlders is different for Shadowhunters. Clary, at least, says she hardly feels it at all unless it’s being used on her, and then it depends on the sort of magic it is. For Simon, once inside Magnus’s wards, he can smell the magic permeating in the air in the building. In the hall outside of Magnus’s door, it creeps down his throat and coats his insides, metallic and sharp. It tastes how lightning looks. He wonders if he’s tasting and smelling it, really, or if it’s another sense that isn’t physical.

He raises a fist to knock on the door, but it opens before he can touch it. Simon sheepishly steps inside and toes off his shoes as it closes with a click behind him. Magnus is at the coffee table, entirely absorbed in a scroll spread across the table top, pen between his teeth and notepad balanced on his knee. Simon sees words scrawled on the notepad, not in English; the letters are sharply shaped and totally unfamiliar. Letters that are more used to being carved into stone than scribbled onto paper. The words on the scroll are even farther from Simon’s understanding, and they swim before his eyes, giving him an almost immediate headache.

Magnus finishes his note and looks up at Simon for the first time, beckoning him over to sit. Simon plants himself in an armchair next to the couch, resisting the urge to place his socked feet on the coffee table. Magnus patiently rolls up the aged scroll, and it vanishes from his hand in a gentle pulse of blue along with the notepad on the table. In the notepad’s place appear two drinks. Magnus’s comes in a whiskey glass, Simon’s in a wine glass. It’s much too red, too thick, to be wine. But Simon is good at pretending, and Magnus is willing enough to let him. Just last month Simon hadn’t been able to handle drinking out of anything that wasn’t opaque when he could be seen.

He’s now allowing himself to leave his house without a metal water bottle of blood, doesn’t make Magnus procur him a coffee mug anymore.

Magnus, in his fashion, says, “Well? I’m missing a meeting with the High Warlock of Amritsar for this, Simon.” Simon used to take offense to this sort of statement, but has since learned to listen for the hard steel undertone Magnus takes when he’s truly irritated. His statement is impatient, but contains no real bite.

When Simon stays silent for a moment longer, sipping at his “wine” instead of speaking, real concern colors Magnus’s expression. “Is everything alright?”

Simon takes a breath he doesn’t need, filling his lungs with courage, and says, “How long did it take for it to sink in, for you? The, uh, the immortality thing.”

Magnus sits back, appraising Simon for a long time with a neutral face, before saying, “Not until my fiftieth birthday. I woke up and realized that I wore the same unchanging face for twenty years, and would wear it forever. You?”

 _When I fell in love_ , Simon thinks, but doesn’t say. “Recently,” is what he settles on. He’s sure Magnus suspects what he means, but has the grace to not say so.

“And?” Magnus prompts, and Simon throws himself back into the chair, hands coming together in his lap and squeezing before he starts gesticulating for a moment, reaching for his words which seem to hang in the air.

“I don’t know. My life is sort of ruined, you know? Like, the super speed and enhanced senses are cool, and so is the encanto and stuff. But I can’t really do any of the things I ever wanted to do. The important stuff, I guess, has been taken away from me,” Simon says.

“You have eternity to do anything you want.” Magnus gestures around himself, as if indicating his own long life and the things he’s done to fill it. And Simon is impressed by him, certainly. Everything he’s achieved, how lively he seems. _The Energizer Bunny of warlocks_.

“Except grow old with someone. Bring them home to my mom, marry them, get a cat together or something. Die with them and know that you’ll always be together.” Simon didn’t mean to say that, but that’s all he can think about. He’ll never get gray hair or wrinkles, never be old with someone, lead a life of change and new adventures with them. The adventures of domesticity.

Magnus purses his lips, but says nothing for a long time. Simon hangs his head, feeling miserable. “You’re right,” he says finally, and Simon snaps his head up.

“What?” 

“I said you’re right. You’re immortal, and you’ll never grow old with someone you love at your side. Viagra filled dreams of domestic bliss are beyond your reach,” Magnus repeats.

“You are really not getting that whole _comforting words_ thing.”

Magnus rolls his eyes, but continues, “If you love someone, and they love you, you’ll find that those things aren’t as important. Maybe you’ll always look eighteen, maybe they’ll grow old and die and leave you behind. But it won’t matter, in the end, because you’ll be together.”

Simon looks at Magnus doubtfully, “Sounds like a B-rate romantic movie line. Why settle when there are ways to be together forever? Or… or die when you’re ready to. With them.”

Magnus’s eyes take on a dark cast. “That is a dangerous line of thought. And also not the way you should love someone. Take Alec and I, for example. The fact that I will live forever and Alec, in all likelihood, will not, is an upsetting one. But he loves me, and wouldn’t ask me to change for him. He is not so selfish as to ask me to die with him, to make his life my life. And, as much as I want to have him forever, I won’t press him to make any drastic changes to himself just for the sake of my happiness. This person you love, would you really want them to give up their life for you? So you could keep them?”

Simon thinks for a long moment. Thinks of blonde hair and heterochromatic eyes, a roguish smile and the dark lines of angelic runes. “I guess not,” he admits finally.

“You don’t have to make your peace now, or ever. But it isn’t good to let this consume you. There are just some things we cannot change,” Magnus says, leaning and patting Simon on the shoulder warmly. He rises to see Simon out.

On the way down the stairs, Simon mulls over what Magnus said. And then, he thinks about the unpredictable lifespan of a Shadowhunter warrior, especially such a reckless one. Then, he changes course from going home to heading to the Institute, figuring he best not waste any time. He’s only allotted this single, tiny eternity, after all.


	2. Luke

Luke is running on entirely too much coffee and entirely too little sleep. His morning started more than twelve hours ago, with three murders and more dissent in the pack. His lunch hour was cut short by a jurisdictional dispute between his pack and Raphael’s clan, which took four and a half hours to resolve in a way that made everyone happy. His work day was full of the ache in his chest, punched through where his heart lived, which throbbed each and every time he looked at Alaric’s empty desk at the precinct. 

At five in the afternoon he took his picture of Jocelyn off his desk, tucked it into a drawer, and strategically stacked flies to block his view. If his eyes stung until 6:30, then he blamed it on allergies. 

His quiet dinner of Chinese takeout was interrupted by Clary. He loved her like a daughter, but he has to admit that he finds the Shadowhunter entitlement to be unagreeable. Two arguments over how to proceed in a temporary deal with a New Jersey werewolf pack later, Luke had to work very hard to ignore how much Clary seemed like Jocelyn when she flipped her braid over her shoulder. And he had to work even  _ harder  _ to ignore how the pure righteousness in her eyes was exactly like Val. The Val that Luke had mourned the day he was turned into a werewolf. Who was eaten by the man they’re now at war with. The only way he can stay sane is if he convinces himself Valentine wasn’t always what he is now. 

It’s after midnight now, and Luke finally has taken refuge in a corner booth of the Hunter’s Moon. The bar has dimmed down to a gentle lull, only local werewolves left, nursing drinks and shooting a half-hearted game of pool. Maia keeps casting him glances that somehow manage to be both sympathetic and critical. 

Luke definitely was  _ not  _ dozing by the time Magnus arrives, midnight blue jacket slightly damp from the recent rain and eyeliner smudged in a way that is a bit too unintentional to be considered artful. Unlike Luke, however, he doesn’t slouch over the table. He only stretches his legs, and sinks into the opposite booth, and lets the silence stretch between them. Even exhausted and holding a glass of whiskey, the tension is visible in Magnus’s shoulders and palpable in the air around the booth, buzzing between them. There are lines around his mouth made from a day of frowns, and his dark gray tie is slightly askew. This is the least put together Luke has ever seen him. He signals for Maia to bring them a whole bottle from the top shelf. 

“How’s Alec?” he finally breaks the silence. 

Magnus lifts a shoulder. “I haven’t seen Alec in at least a week. He’s been in Clave meetings, and I’ve been all over the world on business. Twice,” he says. 

Luke nods, and they sit silently for a little longer until Magnus asks, “How is Clary?” 

Luke’s only response is to take a long drink, and Magnus cracks a wry smile at that. There’s more drinking, and Luke notices that Maia is beginning to send the other patrons out, but knows they can stay. “When’s the last time you’ve slept?” he asks, seeing the feverish haze in Magnus’s eye of prolonged exhaustion. 

Magnus blinks. “What day is it?” Something inside Luke snaps at that, and suddenly he’s laughing. Head tilted back, chest and stomach shaking with it, howling laughter. He hears Magnus chuckling as well, and tilts forward and lean over the table. 

Tears are rolling down his cheeks, and he doesn’t think about whether they’re from laughter or not, and sucks in hard breaths to steady himself. 

He looks up after he regains most of his composure, to see Magnus’s face still tilted in a smile, small and bemused, but genuine. “Today has been shit,” Luke says decisively. 

Magnus raises his glass to that, and drinks. 


	3. Jace & Isabelle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This somehow went from his relationship with Jace and Isabelle to his relationship with his magic. Sorry.

The sensation of using magic in a fight is a singular thing. A hard ball that expands in Magnus’s chest, tendrils that wrap down his spine and burn under his skin. His palms itch with power, tangible in the air around him. It has taken a lot of practice to bend this magic to his will, an instinctive part of him that exists almost solely to protect his body. Once, Magnus viewed his magic as a separate part of himself, there was  _ Him _ , and there was  _ It _ living inside, an unwelcome and unruly parasite. 

_ It _ existed in knee-jerk responses that ended in catastrophe; flinches that turned to forest fires, fear that sent people flying ten yards backward before they had a chance to touch him. He spent years of his life suppressing it, forcing it down in his stomach like a sickness, an ache that never really went away. 

Now, Magnus knows better. His magic is just as much a part of him as his bones and sinews and muscles, and can be wielded with practice. In dangerous situations, he’s still hard pressed to keep himself under control, the burn in his chest and itch in his palms urging him to protect himself. To disregard the collateral damage. 

After Valentine’s capture, the Circle disbanded into smaller factions, lacking order and leadership. Some went completely into hiding to wait out the storm, while others took to wreaking havoc. The New York Downworld has been subject to random Circle attacks for weeks, and demon activity in the area has skyrocketed. Missions in which Magnus’s magic has been viewed as an invaluable asset are increasingly common, much to his irritation. He isn’t the only warlock in New York, and the Institute is wracking up quite the tab that he doubts they will ever pay. 

Usually, at least, Alec is on the missions. It’s a small consolation to spot him in high places of the battle ground, arrows flying with devastating accuracy. Or, sometimes, having him at Magnus’s back, fighting together. Trading blood splattered flirtations.

Alec, unfortunately, is on a diplomatic mission to Alicante, appealing for more manpower to fight the war happening in New York. Magnus’s only company is Jace and Isabelle. Jace, though a deplorable house guest, is much more tolerable in a fight. Isabelle is efficient and lethal. He does not consider them  _ friends _ , by any means, but there is a sort of kinship that exists between the people who love someone. Jace and Isabelle are the most important people in Alec’s life, and mean something to Magnus by proxy, if nothing else. 

They’re infiltrating an abandoned apartment building in Manhattan, glamored invisible to the Sightless eye, but teeming with demons. The Circle members that occupied the place left a horde of summoned demons as a parting gift. Magnus, Jace and Isabelle make up the initial infiltration team, tasked with taking out as many as possible and scouting the building for any surprises before calling in for backup to clean out the place. 

Magnus performed a spell to contain the demons inside upon entering, unfortunately trapping the three of them inside until he breaks it once all of the demons are dead. Shadowhunters can enter, but no one can leave until the threat is gone. Magnus made peace with the several morning client appointments he’d have to reschedule three floors ago. 

Magnus thrusts a burning red fist through the front of a demon with a hard exoskeleton and much too many legs, grimacing at its dying shriek and withdrawing, rings dripping with black ichor. 

Jace is up the stairs, almost out of view, splattered with a little blood and a lot of steaming ichor, gear burned by demonic acid in spots, the gleam of his seraph blade dimmed by the carnage dripping from it. Isabelle is almost right behind Magnus, snapping her whip expertly down the stairs at the demons that try to take them from behind. 

It happens in an instant, before Magnus has the time to shake the ichor from his hand. A spider-like demon descends from the ceiling, held aloft by a slimey web. It moves silently, hovering over Jace like a pendulum, before dropping to land on his back. Jace, for his part, is completely distracted by a double-headed creature with six mouths and doesn’t see the threat. 

Magnus acts before he thinks, magic striking out and grabbing Jace to pull him backward, sending him tumbling down the stairs. A blink later, the spidery creature is sliced in half by Isabelle’s whip. Jace sits on the floor for a stunned second, before turning to grin at Magnus. 

“My hero,” he says, and Magnus scowls at him, pushing past to take out the demon Jace left unfinished with a single powerful ball of magic. He ignores Jace’s laughter, and Isabelle snapping at him to  _ focus, Jace _ . He absolutely doesn’t smile. 

A few floors later, Magnus is toe to toe with three demons at once when a seraph dagger flies past him to land with a sickening thud in the center of a demon’s head. It tumbles to the floor in a heap at Magnus’s feet and he doesn’t have to look to picture Jace’s self-satisfied grin. 

“Pretty good aim, for a Shadowhunter,” Magnus says, before flipping a bolt of magic over his shoulder and killing Jace’s mark for him. 

Jace’s affronted and impressed mumbling follows Magnus up the stairs as he approaches the next landing. 


	4. Raphael

Raphael is still Catholic. Despite being unable to step foot over hallowed ground, despite the cross he wears burning his skin, he still believes in and loves his God. And, on good days, he can still sometimes convince himself that his God loves him. Cursed as he is. Certain times of the year, the sun falls in time for him to sit outside during evening Mass, at a church near where his family used to attend. He catches the tail end, will sit on the bench across the street from the church, watch the well dressed mundanes file out. Still clutching their crucifixes and bibles. Few children attend this Mass, for it’s late in the day. Mostly he spots working parents, worn and weary, and the elderly. 

He watches the church for hours into the night, sometimes, when he has no other obligations, and sometimes when he does. This is as close to God as he gets, as close to His grace that Raphael can reach without being burned. And he feels that closeness, sometimes, to his Lord, as if God can feel him sitting there and spares him a glance. 

Most times, company is better. 

Magnus sits by Raphael’s side, silent, but present. He waits, always, for Raphael to speak first. Perhaps he suspects that Raphael is praying, and maybe Raphael is. Mostly, he’s seeking. 

“I do not love her,” Raphael says, finally. 

Magnus hums, raising his eyebrows in a question. 

“Isabelle Lightwood. I do not love her. You were right,” Raphael tells him. It’s the truth. Once the last of the Nephilim blood was out of his system, he no longer wanted anything from Isabelle. Maybe forgiveness, but only because it might bring them both peace. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Magnus says. 

Raphael scowls at him. “You knew you’d be right.” 

“I also know that you wanted me to be wrong. That you wanted to be happy. I’m sorry you’re not.” 

Raphael’s expression, if possible, grows even more disdainful. Magnus knows this means that he’s right. “Well, not everyone can be compatible with a Shadowhunter,” Raphael says scornfully. 

Magnus smirks, but quickly wipes the look off of his face, instead fixing Raphael with a glare. “Don’t bring Alexander into this,” he says. 

“It’s difficult to avoid, considering how  _ disgustingly  _ in love you are,” Raphael manages to look thoroughly horrified, and Magnus grins again, and doesn’t try to fight it this time. Raphael rolls his eyes.

Soberly, Raphael asks, “Doesn’t the vulnerability bother you?” 

Magnus tilts his head in ascension. “Of course. But the trust is stronger than the fear.” 

Raphael thinks about this, and decides that it sounds like religion, to him. It’s what his mother always told him. True faith happens when belief is stronger than doubt, prayers of gratitude are more plentiful than prayers for help. The answers a person finds are louder than the questions they still have. The trust in not being alone is stronger than the fear of the unknown. 


	5. Ragnor & Catarina

Magnus doesn’t know why he puts up with these gatherings. He says as much, glaring when Cat laughs and Ragnor scowls harder. “Because left to your own devices for more than a decade, you’d crash and burn,” Ragnor says imperiously. 

“I was alive a  _ long  _ time before I met you, you know,” Magnus snaps back, raising his wine glass to his mouth as Catarina laughs again and Ragnor rolls his eyes. They all know it’s a lie. 

“And aren’t you glad to have my good counsel?” Ragnor asks, pressing a hand to his chest. 

“ _ Good  _ is a very generous word,” Magnus grumbles, and Catarina plucks his wine from his hand, drinking from his glass. 

“Fifteen years since you two have last been in a room together and still,” she says, dragging a bare vibrant blue foot through the grass beyond their picnic blanket. Catarina had wanted to spend the day outside, Magnus has astutely refused to endure Ragnor’s interior decor for more than five minutes, and Ragnor hadn’t wanted to stray far from home. (“Every time I go  _ anywhere  _ with you two, my clothes get ruined, not to mention what happens to my pride.”)

The solution was a day in the field behind Ragnor’s cottage, armed to the gills with wine and snacks. “Perhaps if Ragnor were to develop a sense of humor,” Magnus suggests with a smile. “This would be more enjoyable for everyone involved.”

Catarina raises her eyebrows, “I am having a perfectly nice time.” 

“ _ Perhaps  _ if Magnus had a little shame,” Ragnor fires back, “I would have a better time, at least. Why do we invite him?” 

“He always brings the good wine,” Catarina says primly, and ducks when Magnus throws a handful of strawberries at her. 

Magnus would never admit it, but he hasn’t been this happy for weeks. His new title of High Warlock is a heavy one, and his shoulders were still getting used to the weight. He loved being able to help the warlocks in New York, perhaps spare them the troubles he went through when he was young, but the responsibility is not easily adjusted to. 

He had to clear his schedule for a single afternoon  _ weeks  _ in advance just to see Catarina and Ragnor. And Magnus knows that Ragnor’s counsel is wise, if sometimes forced upon him. 

Here in the grass, basking in the late afternoon sun and surrounded by the smell of strawberries and earth, he feels free. A bird temporarily let out of its cage to roam. He can pretend he doesn’t have mail to sort through and meetings to attend, clientele to appease. 

Catarina nudges him a while later, and only then does he realize that he fell asleep. “You’re going to be late getting home,” she tells him, and he shrugs. 

“Sorry, Ragnor must have bored me to sleep,” he says immediately, rising and packing up their picnic basket with the remains of lunch with a simple gesture. 

Ragnor, for his part, looks thoroughly unimpressed, and waits for Catarina to build her portal home, then grabs Magnus’s arm. Magnus turns toward him, teasing remark ready on his lips, but then he’s pulled into a tight hug and it dies in his mouth. The hug lasts approximately five seconds, and then he’s shoved away as Ragnor sets his dress shirt to rights and waves Magnus off, telling him he doesn’t have all day to stand around. 

Magnus opens his own portal, and can’t keep himself from grinning as he steps through and into his loft, which somehow doesn’t seem as cramped as it did that morning. 


End file.
